| What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow | |
| Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, | |
| You cannot say, or guess, for you know only | |
| A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, | |
| And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, | |
| And the dry stone no sound of water. Only | |
| There is shadow under this red rock, | |
| (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), | |
| And I will show you something different from either | |
| Your shadow at morning striding behind you | |
| Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; | |
| I will show you fear in a handful of dust. |
19-30, The Burial of the Dead. The Waste Land, by T.S. Eliot. Go read the whole thing.
